I used to have to watch "CatDog" with my little sister.

I like cats better than dogs. Cats are assholes. And lazy. And really fun to torture. You can put duct tape on their front legs and watch them do the-floor-is-hot dance, or you can apply peanut butter to their nose and watch them freak out in hopes of cleaning it off. My favorite is Cat in a Bag. I used to put my Shop Kitty in a laundry bag, kind of gently swing it back and forth and threaten the kitty that I was going to throw him in the bottom of the river. All the while singing a little tune I made up called "cat in a bag at the bottom of the river." It's a Whaley Family classic now.

It's not fair that people can say they hate cats but you're hard pressed to find the asshole who's man enough to say she hates dogs. Well... I don't care for dogs. Inside dogs that is. Where I'm from, a dog lives, breaths, sleeps, eats and stays outside. No questions asked. If you see the dog inside the house, you gasp in horror and run and hide so you don't get blamed for it. And I didn't know that people physically paid money for mutts until I moved to Austin. I overheard someone say they wanted a wienerschnitzel or some such half breed as that and that they were willing to pay, oh, I don't know, $500 bucks for this pooch.

Me: Meeehhhhrrrr? Errrr, heeeeh?!? A-say a-say, whaaaaa? You want to PAY MONEY for that dog? Five hundred big ones? For that stupid little dog? I don't understand.

And I still don't. If you want a new dog in the country, you go over to your friend's house and ask when their dog is having puppies. But mostly you just kind of come into a dog in the country. People love dumping animals in the country, so you just go outside and there's probably a dog already there and then, poof, you have a new pet. And you probably just will call him Puppy or Dog or something really clever like that.

And when the dog gets ill, you don't take it to the vet to pay him (!?) to put the thing down, you call your Cousin Jeff to come out and shoot the dog and put him out of his misery, as well as save you from spending hundreds of dollars in bills ON A DOG.

When I was a young pup myself, we had this family dog that was pretty much the end all be all of canines. He was a black lab, beautiful, smart, and really something. Pa taught the dog how to track deer that had been shot out in the woods and retrieve them if they had been wounded and lost, saving the deer from dying a slow and miserable death all the while pleasing the hunter with the finding of his kill. Dad would come home looking like he had been attacked by a bear because Tracker would pull him through briars and fences and he had to keep ahold of the leash lest he lose Tracker and the deer. Tracker found many a deer out in Hamilton County. He also got shot accidentally in the neck once, helped us raise four raccoons and would sit in the garage and listen to Dad as he worked. Raddest dog ever.

And then Tracker got sick and started seizing one morning, and as upset as we all were, Dad called his sister's husband to come over and shoot our family dog. My sister, mother and I waited in the house when we heard the shot, me crying over my cereal bowl.

I don't think I started this blog with intentions of chastising anyone with dogs, or anyone who pays any given amount for the purchase or health of their dog, it just kind of spun out of control. Dogs are sometimes okay and you can do with them what you please. As long as your dog doesn't lick my face. Their butt-licking tongues on human faces? You have got to be kidding me.

The real point is that I love torturing cats. Torture is a harsh word. Teasing cats for my enjoyment is more like it. Right before this blog, my roommate's cat wanted outside and I knew she wanted out, but instead of letting her out, I put a blanket on top of her and then opened the door. She could smell the rain and out of doors just a few steps in front of her, but she couldn't reach it (what with the blanket over her). And I laughed. Out loud. For a good two minutes. By myself.

And then there's this.

See? Cats are assholes. Love 'em.

XANAX! It's like a hug... Except, not really.

I deactivated my Fbook account. Which means not only that I got solid sick of people's boring children/how-I'm-feeling/what-I'm-about-to-do posts (plus sifting through which people I would unsubscribe to or just plain un-friend), I am going to be writing a lot more on my blog. I have ideas, people. Ideas!

Cleo's all: "God BRYNNAN! You can't deactivate, you post every time I have to piss!" (No.) But yes, I do have things in my head and The Book is the best way to get that out there. Or maybe not? Maybe I've been drinking.

Maybe last night was the single most worst night of my life?

There have been a few.

Once, in what I was sure was a good idea, I gathered all my ex-boyfriend's clothing laying about my house and took a permanent marker to every item, decorating his garb with niceties and poetry and heartfelt things, mostly stuff like "EFF YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT" and "I HOPE YOU EAT SHIT AND DIE," and you know... pleasantries like that. Then I went over to his house where he was entertaining some female companions of sorts and strew all his worthless crap all over his yard, knocked on the door and drove away. (Older, wiser sister on the phone that night: "Brynnan, I really think this is a bad idea.")

Another night (same poor boyfriend) had to endure the 21-year-old gal who had never indulged in tequila, and she who after the first few tastes, and for no real reason, proceeded to beat the ever loving shit out of said boyfriend. Boyfriend, well tempered as he was, quietly wrestled me down and sent me on my way. (Wow, somehow, that guy always comes out really great in stories, and me, not so much). Sidenote: I have since learned that punching men in the face is just plain not fair. I have also learned how to control my tequila intake in order to keep the "inside anger" quelled. Sometimes.

Of course, there's always the night you get the phone call that... same boyfriend!? why does this guy keep popping up!?... has been battered in the head and has a subdural hematoma and you gotta drive two hours because he's asking for you and well, he might die. Pretty vivid/horrid night.

And then last night.... happened too soon to even be funny right now! Wounds are still fresh. People are still angry. Namely me. I will say that if you are crying and your significant other/ex-boyfriend offers you a Xanax instead of solace/comfort/love, then that person is not worth much effort on your part. Sometimes all a person needs is a good old-fashioned hug. And some people (some men) don't know how to offer that kind of comfort. And that is not okay in my book.

My older sister and I used to fight. A lot, duh. We were children, and it was all about who built the better fort that week and who got to play with the deer eyeball and whatnot. And yes, there were broom sticks wrapped around small ribcages during chores and there were surprise shower attacks which ended in broken glass doors and cake donuts placed strategically in panty drawers, so what? But when we fought, our father would A) make us glove up and box, then B) hug. We fought and then we hugged. And said we loved each other. It was forced, naturally, and the two of us would do the whole stand face-to-face thing and I would pretend put my head on her shoulder and our arms would be dangling in nonchalance, but Father would not allow it. We had to "PUT YOUR ARMS AROUND EACH OTHER!" and look each other in the eye and say "I love you," and by that time, it was so ridiculous and hilarious that we were looking at each other and laughing, red Everlast boxing gloves wrapped tightly around each other.

AND THAT is how you end a fight. Not with prescription drugs. Moron.

And so, with that in mind, I have decided I need to start dating again. (This can only provide entertainment for my dedicated blog followers, because if there's anything I hate more than dating, it's that I love blogging about horrible dates). And I think I'm going to start dating some nerdy guy or something because I watched Weird Science for the first time tonight and dude, those dudes are cute. And nerds are always better than jocks or something like that. Plus, a nerd would probably talk to me about Hemingway and stuff like that. Which would be super rad. So long as he doesn't play video games.

And then I'll leave you these two songs. One, Mumford' and Sons: Little Lion Man (so apropos), and my newest and most favorite band right now, The Soldier Thread's: Anybody. Both lyrics are poignant, fitting and meaningful if you really want to get the whole feel of this blog.

I have no idea what I have been babbling about or where this blog went. I hope it is well-written and mildly entertaining. Good night, fellow Mexicans.

love! in a bottle

Some people smoke after work, some people kill things.

Saturday night I came home to a ridiculous ruckus in my kitchen. I had kind of been drinking and the house was pretty dirty so I thought for sure a possum was in the trash can. I stood in my bedroom doorway, which is right off the kitchen, in horror as I assumed some large critter had somehow made it's way into the house. I mean, the clamoring was pretty loud. I go to sleep.

Sunday, Roommate cleans house while I am out with my mother and sister. Good, maybe possum got scared of the clean and left from whence he came. She also tells me that Cat ran into the house the other day carrying unidentified object in mouth and when she dropped it in her food bowl, it scurried away. (Lucy, doing exactly NOT what cats are supposed to do with mice.) Well, good. At least now we know the ruckus is a mouse. But Good Lord, it sounds huge.

And as I am standing in kitchen, talking to roommate later that afternoon, noise ensues again. Frightened, Roommate and I both jump onto the counter.

"OMG. Mouse is stuck in trap! And dragging it around making a much more gigantic noise than it's size!" I realize.

Now this means that one of us is going to have to physically retrieve the trap, mouse and all, and dispose of it properly.

Crap.

We try the ole broom method but only succeed in pushing mouse closer to under the stove, not good.

"I'm going to have to actually grab the whole thing. Mouse and all," I decide. Gross.

So I reach under our counter where we have removed the base board and grab the trap, little mouse fighting with all it's might to pull away from me, one arm and leg stuck in trap, which might come undone any minute and mouse might run up my arm and into my mouth. I pull myself together and pull out the trap with mouse, Roommate diving out of the way in the same sheer terror I am feeling, and take it out to curbside trash can where I throw it in, still alive. Mission accomplished.

I wash up and head to work. All the while carrying around this terrible feeling that mouse is still alive in trash. Get home from work, eat some pasta and drink some wine with Roommate, still thinking about mouse.

Now at some point, I smell rotting watermelon rinds in the kitchen trash and have to take it out. This means I have to face the poor mouse again. (Dread). I can't just throw more trash on top of this little guy and hope he dies in a few hours. I should have beat him to death with the broom! I should have smashed him with a brick! Oh my gosh, I feel terrible! So I take him out, still attached to trap, and put him in the yard. Perhaps Lucy will finish what she started! But no, she noses the mouse in disgust and moves on with her life, rolling around in the dirt next to him, suffering, and panting pretty heavily and now, scared out of his mind from the cat encounter, doing this circular dance because one side of his body is stuck in the trap. And I'm just standing there with a flashlight watching this pitiful display.

Roommate and I discuss. "We can't leave him like this. What do we do!?"

Roommate: "Maybe we should drown him?"

Me: "Ew. Are you gonna hold him down?"

Roommate: "Maybe we could string up a little noose and hang him."

Me: "Oooo, yeah! We could hang it up in Other Roommate's Room. No! We're just getting weird now. "

Roommate: "Or we could nail him to a board."

Me: "Okay, now you're just talking about crucifying the mouse. We need Second Roommate, she will know what to do."

And so nothing really gets accomplished and we drink more wine.

Roommate #2 comes home and after hearing sad mouse story, berates me for letting this go on and decides, yes, we need to kill it and she decides what's best it to cut it's little head off and she will be the one to do it. And while I know R2 is a strong woman who could do the job, I cannot let her endure this, so I stand up to the plate.

I go into my room and retrieve my memorabilia Winchester hunting knife which has never left it's case until this point, grab the flashlight and go out into the yard, R2 following. Mouse, still alive, gives one last circle dance, I instruct R2 to look away, and with the most ease, and really almost like butter*, cut off mouse's head, mouse letting out the most awful squeaking noise one has ever heard. (I didn't hear anything.)

R2 claims mouse is still alive because his head is convulsing, but I assure her, he is dead, he just doesn't know it yet. And while I assure her by going over the laceration again, I end up kind of pushing the mouse into the earth, leaving only it's tail above ground, which is wagging out of control. ("Stop it, mouse, you're making such a scene.")

We go inside, leaving mouse for some wild animal to hopefully dispose of. I feel good about mouse's misery ending, yet I find that I am shaking vehemently. While I have killed wild animals before, it was always for some greater good, ie: to feed my family who most often couldn't afford brand name cereal. And all those times I shot a deer or rabbit or squirrel, I found that I was shaking afterward but I thought it was just excitement. Now, after I have killed mouse in such a horrifying fashion, I find that it was adrenaline.

Great.

*Come to find out, after speaking with my most trusted mouse resources, a mouse can be killed merely by stepping on it, one strike with a broom or rock of your choice, or simply by squeezing it's little bones in your hand. There really is no need to get your Winchester hunting knife you got for Christmas involved. Sicko.

On Wetting Oneself Part Deux

Summer is my favorite time of year.

But I also like when summer has just about worn you out and then that light little breeze comes along and you're like, "damn, fall is pretty rad, too." Sadly, in Texas, it only lasts like a day or two, but the point is that God made seasons for a reason. You get plum burnt out on one season too much. Especially summer. Geeeeeeeez. Enough already.

And then there's deer season!

Every hunter starts to get that itch around September and October. The "I need to kill something other than these blasted fire ants" itch. The need to be enveloped in camouflage and sit for hours in a deer stand, watching nothing but branches and weeds move and thinking to yourself, "Holy crap! Was that a deer? No... Shit."

That hunter...is not me.

While I know several men and women who participate in the ridiculousness of getting up at four AM and spreading around doe urine and rattling antlers and snorting buck snorts... it is my personal conviction that going outside with a gun, some corn and a jacket tends to do the trick.

Oh, and my Dad.

Dad pretty much tells me what to do and I do it. He does that really annoying hunting voice like on the hunting shows where you would rather strangle yourself than hear what the hunter has to say (like that hissing whisper voice you did when you were a kid and were supposed to be in bed and you didn't want your parents to hear down the hall but you wanted it to be loud enough for your sister to hear in the next bed): "Well... we decided to cut around through the back pasture... cause we know the bucks wonder up into the north part of the field...and we did a few snorts and rattles... and BY GOD if that sonofabitch didn't come a runnin'..."

One of the first hunts I can remember with my Dad was at my Hey-Hey's place. I was pretty small, young enough to only remember the traumatic parts of the trip...

Dad was hunting on the bank of a tank and had set me up in a mesquite tree ("Stay there. Be quiet") while he laid out on the bank and looked out over the prairie at the deer, waiting for el guapo to show his big ugly face, I guess. I remember it being pretty cold and me being a tiny little thing, I had to pee pretty quick.

"Dadddd!" (in the hiss whisper) "Daddy! I hafta go to the bathroom!"

Dad, compliant, mildly annoyed, rises from belly position and takes his tiny girl below the bank to take care of her business and returns her to tree perch with a "Stay there. Be quiet."

Now I don't know much about time and the world around me at this point, but I'm going to say about twenty minutes later, the same situation unfolds. Only this time, Big Boss Man is much more agitated and much less compliant to little girl's requests. Little girl senses her father's anger and becomes worrisome, frightened, and wants more than anything in the world to not disappoint her Dear Old Pa.

The wind continues to blow on the tip-top of the bank, while Your Humble Narrator is in precarious mesquite tree, and Pee Urge Number Three comes along.

Now, I'm a smart little gal. I know that if I tell my pa I have to pee AGAIN, he is going to get all huffy puffy at me, yank me out of the tree, set me behind the bank, and probably miss the shot of his life due to his whining little bratty kid who can't hold her pee in. So, I did what any good child would do and I pissed myself. I mean I really let myself have it. The flood gates opened and there was no stopping the warm, youthful flow of relief. I surely can't remember if I did it out of fear or spite. My tiny little jeans soaked and me, a tad pleased, a tad ashamed.

Father of course, after hefting his child out of the tree and discovering that she had pissed herself, felt terrible (only after, of course, scolding me for pissing myself) and probably had a considerable time explaining himself to my dear old mother, who must've not allowed such goings on any longer because I don't remember going out with Dad again 'til I was ten or eleven when I got to kill my first deer. Also about the same time I stabbed Dear Old Dad while gutting said deer...

Now that's a whole other blog...

Your Guide to Surviving Summer with No A/C.

It is my personal conviction that flaming heat is better than ice cold. I would rather be pouring sweat than in a sweater. Cold sucks. A lot. It makes me shiver and say weird things out loud. Things like "hebushineeene" and "sheeshimoag." Cold weather Tourette's, if you will.

But whatever. I live in Texas, so rarely anyone has to hear these inaudible utterances. Plus, I pretty much stay huddled at Donn's Depot when it's freezing outside because they have a really rad and what I guess is really old heater.

Moving on...

My car doesn't have a working air conditioner. My freaking car. Old Blue. The old money pit. The old pain in my ass. I only spend more money on rent and Taco Bell. She demands something new every time I turn around! "I need gas!" and "Change my oil!" and "Clean my windshield!"

UGGGGGHHHHH.

She's ridiculous. High Maintenance Bitch, is what I call her. Who has the time!?!?

Her latest shenanigan is her fuel pump. She actually thinks a new fuel pump is in order so that gasoline gets into the engine from the fuel tank... the audacity. So every time I try to crank her, she makes this embarrassing scene where I crank and crank and crank and nothing happens. So I'm just sitting there, at 7-11, clutching a chimichanga, screaming at my ignition, looking like a real dumbass.

And then the a/c. Right smack in the middle of May she chokes on me. And it got pretty hot in May. And I was like, "Okay, I guess I should have someone look at this fuel pump and a/c disaster." And the mechanic was all, "Yep, it's gonna cost you one arm and ohhhh, better throw in one leg." So I tuned out and started playing with all the keys that were beside his desk and pointing at pictures and asking who was this? and was he really a granddad? because he looked so young. Bald, but young. Then he asked me if I wanted to fix my piece of crap car in exchange for monetary transaction and I was like, "no."

So. Here is how you survive summer in Texas with a piece of shit car and no a/c. (And God willing the fuel pump doesn't actually go out when you're driving to San Antonio one day.)

-Always keep an extra change of clothes in the car.

Indubitably, your ass is going to sweat. off. Right off. Your arms are going to sweat in that elbow fold while you're driving, unless you drive with your arms straight out like Cruella deVille. Actually, that might help. Consider adding that to the guide. There will be sweat coming down your neck and into your shirt and Good Lord, the back sweat, it's insane. So upon making your arrival to let's say, Important Job Interview, and your ass looks like you just jumped rope in the attic, your extra change of clothes will come in handy. I would suggest traveling in a tank top but sunburn will become an issue (travel with SPF 97). I think maybe a light flowing top. Which brings us to the next point in where clothing is also key.

-Utilize body position/clothing.

So, you are rolling down the road, windows down, thighs on fire, leaning kind of forward to decrease back heat, and you stick your hand out the window and lo! A cool breeze of air comes through your shirt sleeve and into the blazing underneaths of your wardrobe. If positioned correctly, your hand can actually increase the flow of wind into the parts of your body that need relief. Ie: If you are wearing the suggested clothing for Traveling in Hell, your billowy top will give way to the current, and relieve your armpit, chest and stomach from the insane temperature that has built over the two hours your car was festering in the Target parking lot. Unfortunately, only one side of your body will feel any sort of relief. But on the up side, people won't wonder what the hell you are doing because you'll just look like you're doing that whole "enjoying the day, wind surfing with my hand" routine. Fellow drivers-by will nod and smile to you in passing whilst doing the same, but while they think you are singing lyrics to a song, really you'll be mouthing "HELP ME."

-Hydrate.

No bottle of Dasani will suffice here, people. We're talking sweltering, miserable, your dog will die if you leave him in your car, heat here. That pathetic bottle of water is going to be boiling lava hot within about fifteen minutes. In which time you can't even drive home in traffic in this discombobulated cluster the City of Austin calls roadways. Get a thermos. A good one. And I don't really know how to distinguish a good thermos from a bad thermos but I feel like it's important. Water is going to be key. Especially if you're traveling extended amounts of time. Granted, you will be going (hopefully) 70-75 MPH, which will ultimately make for a more pleasant drive, but on the road for two hours with no cold air and no water, you might as well drive off an embankment and hope for death on impact.

-Avoid contact

With anything. Other humans (holding hands is out, plus who in God's name is going to get in that hot box with you?). Don't put your arm on the console, it will literally burn the hair off your arm. And try to avoid putting on your seatbelt as long as possible. A hot strap belting you into your untimely death by melting? Count me out. If you are in a wreck and you have followed my instructions and are not wearing a safety harness, don't fret; your body will probably have turned to jelly now and the catapult from car to asphalt will feel much less injurious. And now that your car is most definitely totaled, you can finally get a new one.

Top Four Reasons People Love 'Top Five' Lists.

I recently signed up to become an Austin Examiner (examiner.com/austin), incidentally a Bar Examiner, where I pretty much get paid to write about bars. Wow. A real jump in life. But this way I can tell my parents I am supposed to be the at the bar. When my mom calls and is all, "What the hell, Brynnan, what are you doing at a bar at eleven AM?!", I can say it's because I'm making a living. And only getting paid, that is, depending on how often I decide to write something and how often you people read my stuff.

So be prepared, dear blog fans (I think there's at least twelve of you now), to be hammered with threatening e-mails and cluttered Facebook walls with my articles/reviews. Because if you can read to help me make money, I don't see why the hell you wouldn't. Oh, and if you could go to the Public Library and read the same article from every IP address, that would help a lot too.

So now the question is, how the shit do I get this ball rolling. I could start with all the bars that are on my regular playlist, but that seems too boring. So I thought I would start with a Top Five List? People love Top Five/Top Ten Lists. Dave Letterman? Who doesn't adore Dave? Cosmo's Top Five Things You Didn't Know Before This Issue? Classic. And the only part of the Cosmopolitan I read because for some reason I have a subscription to that magazine, that and Seventeen, which is incredibly embarrassing, mostly because my name is right there on the cover. Might as well say: "Brynnan's Seventeen Magazine Even Though She's Twenty-Six," and then the Postman rings his ice cream truck bell and the whole neighborhood turns out to see who in this world still receives Seventeen Magazine. It gets weird.

So. Instead of beginning my Examiner career as soon as possible, which the Examiner urged me to begin immediately, I wanted to write on my own blog first. So, ha! Examiner.

The Top Four Reasons People Love Top Five Lists

Because I couldn't come up with five...

4. Organization. People love it. It gets people out of bed in the morning. My Dad has lists going out the wazoo. On a yellow pad that no one has ever been allowed to write on except the oldest cousin Jamie who everyone thought was going to get a whipping for, but Dad just laughed and marked something off his list... ("Made a list today, check."). Chronology is almost as amazing as alphabetizing something. Except with numbers instead of letters. And it's easier because most of us have to recite the alphabet song in our heads before we decide if N comes before or after P, right? Numbers are so much more logical, and the same everywhere. I think. And counting down is truly exhilarating. The anticipation of what the number one spot will be is almost too much. Which is why I don't have cable anymore. VH1 really knows how to wear something out.

3. Bold Letters. Don't want to read the rest of this paragraph? No problem, you already know what I'm going to say, it's right there in the bold heading. Skimming is imperative in Top Five Lists.

2. People Love to be Told What's Good and Right with the World. Top Anything has to be good. It's at the top! "Top Five Bars in Austin"? This is going to be great! I can't wait to read about something positive and wonderful in the world! "Top Ten Ways to Make an Ass of Yourself"? Right on! "Top Five Reasons Why You Should Adopt this Dying Species"? Okay, but a little less cozy than I like to feel while reading Top Five Things. "Top Two Reasons Your Uncle Killed Himself"? Well, it doesn't work every time.

1. Another Complete and Total Waste of Your Time Online. Get a job, Keith.

Bum Bum Bum Bum BUMS! (sang to the TUMS theme)

If I were homeless, my sign would say, "Shit."

I don't give money that often to homeless folks. But the fancy strikes me usually if his or her sign is clever, witty, honest, or just so damn heart-wrenching I can't help but give him a dollar, or what I usually do, grab the entire cup holder's stash of change, which if I haven't seen a decent homeless sign in a while will probably be a pretty good haul. Today I saw one that said "Help if you can." Oh man, that one got me. I gave him one dollar plus Dr. Pepper.

Some people let the homeless get them all bent outta shape, but for me, it's whatever. If you want to be homeless, that's cool. If you can't help but be homeless, that's cool too. But I have to say, I hardly believe that's the case. Anyolebody can pick up a shovel or pick up trash, so for the most part, I think homelessness is by choice. Unless you have zero legs and arms and mouth painting didn't pan out for you. Hopefully you're receiving some sort of living assistance or at least your second cousin Phil drops in from time to time to help you find the remote.

Yikes.

So last week, I was supposed to meet this guy I'm sort of calling my boyfriend now (that's a whole other blog) and went to the bar I thought he was at but he had moved on, so I sat with a couple of outta town clowns and entertained them by hammering a few whisky shots and making fun of their Movado watches while offering friendly advice about their love lives. I tired of them and decided to head to a bar where I thought my beau might be.

Outside of said bar, a friendly looking gentleman hobo approached me and asked if I had any change. "Why, you're not homeless," I said.

Homeless Guy: Why, yes I am in fact.

Me: That's dumb. You don't seem like you should be.

Homeless Guy: Why would you say that? I'm sitting here asking for change, right?

Me: Uh, yeah, I see that. Pretty dumb. You look like you could work at Whole Foods or something. I don't believe you. Do you work at Whole Foods?

Homeless Guy: No. But I went in it one time.

Me: Overpriced, huh?

Homeless Guy: So, do you have any change or what?

Me: Yeah, but I don't think I'm gonna give you any. Not for nothing, anyway. I know you're a smart guy. Tell me something smart. Read any good books?

Homeless Guy: I've read the Bible.

Me: Good. This is gonna be great. I haven't been to Sunday School in a really long time. Tell me a Bible story.

(Meanwhile, passers-by pass by, Homeless Guy asks for change, gets snubbed.)

Me: Dude, quit it, you're embarrassing me.

HG: Okay. So there was a son born unto a woman who couldn't bear children and his name was Samson. God sent him to his mother so he could be a great man and protect the Philistines from the Israelites.

Me: You mean protect the Israelites from the Philistines.

HG (flustered): Oh. Right. Yes. Anyway, as he grew up he found he was incredibly strong. He wrestled a lion and killed thousands of Philistines with just the jawbone of a horse.

Me: Wrong. It was a donkey.

HG (annoyed): Are YOU telling the story?

Me: Um, nooo. Pretty sure it's God's story. And I can't help you're butchering it. Next you're gonna tell me he fell in love with a girl named Susan and not Delilah and she cut off his earlobe and not his hair.

heartless wench

HG: I'm going off King James Version. How about you?

Me: I don't know, the correct version? You're wrecking the story. How am I supposed to give you money if you wreck the story? I know you're a smart guy. Maybe you just didn't read carefully. My name is Brynnan.

HG: Michael.

Me: Here, Michael. Here is four dollars. You're a shitty story teller but maybe you can buy a few good books at a garage sale with this. I'm going inside to meet someone. Check ya later.

Michael (head tilted, best sad homeless-guy-face on followed with insistent shoulder): You know what would really be nice? (puppy dog eyebrows) A drink.

Me: Oh yeah!? You wanna get drunk tonight!? Forget you're a bum!? Live large for a night!? Gonna tell me some more shitty stories!? Yeah, okay. Come on.

And that's how I friended a bum downtown. The bartender was none too pleased at me and even tried to kick us out based on Michael's sleeveless attire, but luckily bums travel with a lot of crap in a backpack so he threw on a tee shirt and ordered a glass of the bar's finest house wine. My favorite part was when boyfriend came in and I introduced Michael and boyfriend, not lost on the fact that I had brought in a bum and he would probably end up paying for both our tabs said, "I'll have what he's having."